


The French Experiment

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Force (Comics)
Genre: For Science!, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2149758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have to admit, Doctor, I was beginning to entertain the notion that you were uninterested in me, you rejected my advances so often.” Shaking his head in gentle amusement at his foolishness in believing such an illogical thing, Fantomex lays a hand over Doctor Nemesis’ own. “Obviously I was mistaken! I am triumphant in both love and war! No one can resist my charm.”</p><p>“Mm.” Doctor Nemesis says, although the only thing he’s currently struggling to resist is the urge to jab a scalpel through Fantomex’s impudent hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The French Experiment

The first rule of medicine: do no harm. Which includes not using colleagues as guinea pigs for dangerous-experimental, totally theoretical test-trials for your latest chemical concoction. _Highly unethical_. Thankfully, Doctor Nemesis thinks as he discreetly adds several drops of his latest experiment to Fantomex’s drink, he’s not that kind of doctor. Besides! Fantomex is fascinating.  Although he would never say that to the man’s face (X-Force is a team filled with egotists, and he’s already been inadvertently responsible for stroking the faux french-man’s self-esteem with unanticipated consequences) it is nonetheless true, scientifically speaking. He’s a walking, talking state-of-the-art science fair experiment.

A living weapon born in a petri-dish and raised in a time capsule. And while he’s superficially humanoid on the outside, his internal biology is truly amazing in its divergence from normal boring standard human. Nanobots in the blood! Doctor Nemesis has made similar alterations to his own body. They’re  invaluable when it comes to preventing external interference in the form of pathogens both manmade and natural, bolstering the body’s natural immune system from puny-normal-human mall security level to Navy Seal level protection. So, biologically speaking, Fantomex is an impressive specimen. Doctor Nemesis is full of grudging admiration, but also and more importantly full of scientific curiosity and healthy investigative spirit.

Which is what led to him accepting Fantomex’s increasingly persistent invitations to go for a drink together ( _“Alone, just the two of us, eh? Perhaps dinner, a little wine, see where the evening takes us from there…”_ ).

“Are you still with me, Doctor?” Fantomex’s voice breaks through his reveries. The man’s mask is pulled up to expose his mouth,  allowing him to drink, and also, it seems, to pout. Gloomily, the man runs a finger round the rim of his own glass, but doesn’t actually take even a sip from the blasted thing. “I’m beginning to think you aren’t enjoying our little romantic rendezvous; you haven’t touched your drink.”

“What?” Doctor Nemesis tries to remain patient, to not simply say to hell with it and get out the syringe. Sometimes science requires subterfuge. If that means flirting with Fantomex, then that’s a sacrifice he has to make. “Drink? Yes, yes. Mind was elsewhere.Was thinking important scientific type thoughts. Nothing you’d be interested in. Drink up!” He swallows down a mouthful of his own drink, choking slightly at the unexpected potency of it. Single malt, cask strength whiskey. Whatever the man’s flaws, he can’t deny that Fantomex has good taste in some things.

“Ah!” Fantomex’s lips quirk upwards at what he perceives to be Doctor Nemesis’ sudden enthusiasm. “That’s the spirit! Sante!” He quaffs his own drink, then sets the glass on the table, licking his lips clean as he leans over the table. Doctor Nemesis sighs internally, recognising the by now familiar signs of Fantomex in full-frontal flirtation mode. He’s not mistaken; Fantomex is speaking in a low, intimate tone, eyes fixed on Doctor Nemesis’ own in seeming earnesty. “I have to admit, Doctor, I was beginning to entertain the notion that you were uninterested in me, you rejected my advances so often.” Shaking his head in gentle amusement at his foolishness in believing such an illogical thing, he lays a hand over Doctor Nemesis’ own. “Obviously I was mistaken! I am triumphant in both love and war! No one can resist my charm.”

“Mm.” Doctor Nemesis says, although the only thing he’s currently struggling to resist is the urge to jab a scalpel through Fantomex’s impudent hand. His own hand twitches spasmodically as Fantomex further escalates things by actually taking hold of it, thumb brushing across his knuckles. A second later, he feels something nudge against his foot, a booted foot rubbing sensuously along the inside of his leg. This amourous $%&# is playing footsie with him! His leg jerks instinctively upwards, slamming against the table and sending Fantomex’s drink flying. There’s an awkward silence, broken only by the tinkle of shattering glass. Across the table, Fantomex stares wide-eyed and with obvious concern. He must think his date is losing it. Doctor Nemesis coughs, a little self-consciously. It’s possible he may have overreacted. “Ah… apologies?” he offers feebly, “I was… startled.”

Fantomex recovers with admirable speed, gesturing at the bar staff for a replacement drink, a fleeting expression of sympathy crossing his face. “No need to apologise, dear monsieur. I understand; having my full attention must be… overwhelming, considering your feelings for me.”

Doctor Nemesis’ eyebrows rocket upwards at those words. “Feelings?!” Was Fantomex really so blinded by his own superiority complex that he truly believed others shared his obsession with himself?

Fantomex smiles at that, sensual lips twisting smugly. The waiter comes over with another glass which Fantomex takes. “No need to be coy, Doctor. You admitted it, I am the best.”

“I didn’t say - ! - _ah_. Yes, I suppose you could possibly interpret my words to mean literally the best in all areas,” Doctor Nemesis concedes, sinking back from where he’d raised indignantly out of his chair. It’s aggravating but necessary, but he doesn’t want this evening to end prematurely because he hurt Fantomex’s feelings. Not yet, not before he gets to see his carefully concocted top-secret-formula, nanotech-targeting virus take effect. He takes another sip of his drink to cool his tongue.“You’d have to be delusional, but…”

“You don’t know how good that was to hear,” Fantomex says, thankfully ignoring Doctor Nemesis’ mumblings, “someone acknowledging my abilities. Not,” he adds hastily, “that it needs to be said, of course! My superiority is self-evident! Irrefutable! Unquestionable.” His eyes glitter manically, and Doctor Nemesis makes a mental note about the depths of self-delusion Fantomex is currently plumbing. “Still,” Fantomex clears his throat, not quite meeting Doctor Nemesis’ eyes, “as I said, it was nice to hear. I’ve - ah - been experiencing some difficulty in my personal life, as you know.” It’s led to -” he shudders delicately “- feelings of slight… inadequacy.”

“Ah yes,” Doctor Nemesis notes clinically, as Fantomex goes to take a sip of his drink. “An emotion no doubt caused by your subpar performance on the team, as of late.”

Fantomex chokes on his drink. “Zut alors!” he cries reproachfully, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “you are cruel, Doctor. It may be true that I am having some mild performance problems -”

\- the lone other drinker sat by the bar snickers at that, and Doctor Nemesis becomes aware they're making something of a spectacle -

“- but I assure you, these problems are temporary!”

“Of course,” Doctor Nemesis says, aiming for a vaguely comforting tone. “Having your abilities divided among three discrete bodies doesn’t mean your value as assassin-spy-thief has been devalued. Not at all. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Exactly!” Fantomex exclaims, before slumping into his chair morosely. “I’m doing absolutely fine on my own.”

“Hm.” Doctor Nemesis glances at the clock. Enough time has passed that his concoction should having some effect by now, that is, if it proves effective against Fantomex’s enhanced immune system. “So, you’re feeling fine, yes? Not - for hypothetical example only - fluey, achey, nauseous or otherwise unwell?”

“What?” Fantomex says distractedly, accent slipping somewhat. “No, no. You do not understand monsieur, what afflicts me is nothing so banal as a common cold - I might be less than I once was, but I hope Fantomex is still more than a match for germs.”

“Yes, well. So it would seem,” Doctor Nemesis mutters distractedly. Fantomex certainly seems none the worse for his little taste of the virus. Although, Doctor Nemesis muses, he hadn’t had a whole dose, had he? The glass had smashed, he’d ordered a new, untampered-with drink. His mouth twists in irritation at the realisation, but that’s always a hazard when conducting experiments in real world environment. Besides, perhaps it was for the best… Doctor Nemesis can admit, privately at least, that he might have underestimated exactly how emotionally unstable Fantomex was at the moment. His eyes flick over to Fantomex, and he takes in the other man with slightly uneasy curiosity. He’s still slouched in his chair, mien decidedly gloomy. Doctor Nemesis can’t help feeling a stab of pity. The man might be superbly annoying, but he’s not his least favourite member of the team, and it’s somewhat unpleasant to see him in this sorry state. His conscience prickles, as he remembers his ulterior motive in agreeing to this night. “Shall I get us another round?” Doctor Nemesis offers, in a burst of generosity.

“Hm?” Now it’s Fantomex’s turn to look distracted. He glances at his glass as if he’s only just noticed that it’s empty, then sighs. “No. Apologies. I’m -” he passes a gloved hand across his face and laughs, the sound tainted with an edge of hysteria, “I’m not feeling entirely myself.” He pushes his chair back and stands, swooping to grab Doctor Nemesis hand before he can pull back, and bending to press his lips against the back. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our evening short. You must forgive me and allow me to make it up to you another night.”

“Perhaps,” Doctor Nemesis says, noncommittally, “if we go to a place which serves this kind of whiskey again, I suppose I could be convinced.”

Fantomex gives a tight-lipped smile. He looks somewhat pained, though it’s hard to tell through the mask.

“Are you utterly certain you’re feeling alright?” Doctor Nemesis can’t restrain himself from asking. Perhaps the virus was more successful than he thought.

Fantomex laughs, but it sounds forced. “Of course! You forget who you’re talking to. I’m always alright. Better than alright, in fact.”

“Hm,” Doctor Nemesis is not convinced. He can’t tell if its a trick of the light, or perhaps pent-up emotion that is making Fantomex’s eyes glitter feverishly. He focuses his vision, and notes with a clinical eye the film of sweat that clings to Fantomex’s skin. His suspicions are confirmed. The virus is having effect. “You’re not looking so good -”   Fantomex audibly gasps, Doctor Nemesis internally sighs, but rephrases, “- you’re not looking so well. Are you certain you’re not experiencing any symptoms like sickness, _increased irritability_?” he asks pointedly.

“I am not sick,” Fantomex insists. “il est impossible.”

“Well, I suppose you are correct,” Doctor Nemesis mutters, wrestling with his conscience. It’s a small, underdeveloped thing, but its giving him some trouble nonetheless. He reminds himself that the virus is nothing life-threatening, with a life-span only 24 hours. It won’t be a fun 24 hours, true enough, but it also won’t do any permanent damage, and it would provide him with a rare opportunity to observe how Fantomex’s biology reacts to illness. How Fantomex himself copes with illness is something he’s less excited to witness.

“Yes,” Fantomex says, looking pleased at Doctor Nemesis’ capitulation, “yes I am.”

After that, he goes, leaving Doctor Nemesis alone with only his guilty conscience for company.

 

Next morning, Doctor Nemesis wakes, grumpier than is normal even for him, and with a wretched headache to boot. The headache must be psychosomatic, there’s no other explanation, since given his self-enhanced physiology he’d have to drink a lot more than the single tumbler of whiskey he’d enjoyed last night to give himself a hangover. Still, the headache proves aggravatingly hard to recover from. Not even the copious quantities of tar-thick coffee are sufficient to vanquish it or the residual glimmers of guilt he still feels over last night’s trickery. Instead, he’s simply left jittery on top of irritated and in pain. A decidedly bad combination.

Unfortunately for Doctor Nemesis, but fortunately for his unwitting team-mates, there’s no one in the kitchen for him to take his temper on, and he’s forced to bide his time until the team meeting at early noon. To his silent rage everyone aside from Fantomex has the gall to be on time, and even Marrow is less irritating than usual, meaning he’s deprived of any legitimate target to unload his bad humour on, and he’s reduced to making snide remarks which everyone ignores.

“Where’s le Pew?” Cable asks ten minutes into his talk, frowning as if he’s only just noticed their little gathering is one member short.

“Knowing him, probably still in bed,” Psylocke says, adding caustically, “I vote we leave him there.”

“He was out late last night,” Domino says, glancing speculatively over at Doctor Nemesis. “ And he wasn’t alone. Did you tire him out, Doc?”

Marrow snorts explosively, not bothering to hide her amusement. Doctor Nemesis glares at Domino, who grins and winks at him, giving him a thumbs-up, “Hey Doc, no judgement. He might be a prick, but he’s easy on the eyes.”

“I think I’m going to be violently sick,” Psylocke remarks.

“Oo, oo,” Marrow bounces in her seat, hand raised high like a particularly obnoxious school child. “Are like, the Doc and French-man dating now? Like, are they getting freaky with each other?”

“Freaky would definitely be the word for it,” Psylocke murmurs as Marrow collapses into peals of raucous laughter.

“Yes, yes,” Doctor Nemesis says, voice laden with the full weight of his boredom and disdain, “let us waste more time in frivolous laughter and idle speculation. After all, it’s not like we do anything important in these meetings after all, simply plan how to try and avert absolute #%$&#$&% catastrophe!”

Domino at least has the decency to stop openly smirking, but Marrow continues to snigger unrepentantly. “You lot done?” asks Cable, with deceptive patience, “can I go on? Sarah? Domino?”

“Go on,” Domino says airly, smiling at Cable with the ease of one who remembers him before he learned that when it came to costumes, there was such a thing as too many pouches. Marrow settles for sticking her tongue out, which at least has the positive of stopping her from talking.

Cable sighs, managing to infuse the sound with a mixture of weary resignation and abject irritation. “I can’t. Need the whole team here. Now who’s going to go fetch him?”

“I suppose I will,” Doctor Nemesis sighs, dragging himself to his feet. Inevitably, Marrow starts laughing again as he leaves, and Domino’s lips quirk upwards. Even Psylocke seems amused, although she’s probably just glad she won’t have to be the one to deal with him. Volunteering means that he is inevitably adding further grist to the rumour-mill but if Fantomex is late because he’s sick rather than simply lazy, Doctor Nemesis wants to know. Leaving the meeting room, he makes his way to Fantomex's quarters.

He raps sharply on the door to Fantomex’s room, then listens for movement. All is quiet within. Rapidly losing patience from his already short supply, he kicks the door. “Fantomex! Your presence is required by our not-so-noble leader! Open up, or I shall be forced to make my own opening!”

Muffled noise comes from beyond the door, but it stays firmly shut. Doctor Nemesis gives Fantomex thirty seconds to get up, for the sake of fairness, then given his continued failure to answer,retrieves a little vial from one of his pockets and carefully pours a drop of the liquid into the lock. Instantly, the metal begins to bubble, a hissing noise and unpleasant smoke rising from it as the acid burns its way through the lock. Doctor Nemesis waits, tapping his foot. There are quicker ways to get inside, but they involve explosions, fire, and possible structural damage. Cable is unlikely to appreciate any of those things, and good employers are hard to find these days in his line of work.

Once the acid has done its work, he takes hold of the handle with a gloved hand. Even through the material, he can feel the warmth given off by the exothermic reaction, and he takes care not to brush against the lock as he enters the room. It’s dark inside, the only dim light that which filters through the tightly drawn curtains. The floor is littered with carelessly abandoned clothes, a double bed dominating the space. It looks much more comfortable than the ones the base came supplied with, suggesting Fantomex brought his own. That seems characteristically decadent of him. There’s a quilt in a tangled heap on the bed from which he can just spy a single limb escaping.

“Come on now,” he says briskly, marching over to draw the curtains back with malicious glee. Warm sunlight cascades through the window, falling directly onto the bed. A low groan sounds, and Doctor Nemesis turns to spot a still-masked head pop up, blinking blearily against the sudden brightness. Well, that answers the question of whether he sleeps in that thing, although the mask appears to be all that he does sleep in, blanket slipping off as he sits up to reveal a -

\- a distinctly female form.

Doctor Nemesis blinks rapidly, wondering if his ocular implants have somehow malfunctioned, but no, there’s still a nude woman staring fuzzily at him, and now he’s looking properly (and keeping his eyes firmly at above-shoulder level) he can tell that the mask, while clearly based off Fantomex’s design, is slightly different. Fantomex, it seems, is the unresponsive lump covered in blanket beside her from which a low moaning sound is still coming. His brain moves fast, providing him with a logical explanation for her presence and attire within milliseconds. One of the perks of being a supergenius. “Ah. You must be Cluster. The female one.”

“That’s me,” Cluster says, smiling up at him. She seems almost alarming unconcerned at being caught naked by a stranger who’s just broken into the room. “And you must be Doctor Nemesis. Fantomex has told me so much about you.”

“Is that so?” Doctor Nemesis asks, still somewhat distracted despite himself by her continued nudity, “he talks a lot about the team, does he?”  It’s most irritating, to find his prized intellect is rendered less functional than usual by the simple sight of some secondary sex characteristics, the sight of which, in many cultures would not even be considered improper.

“About the team?” Cluster gives him a quizzical look. “Not really. Well, he talks a lot about Betsy of course, but not as much lately… no, recently, the object of his somewhat obsessive attention has been you. He’s quite smitten.”

“...” Doctor Nemesis finds himself at a loss. It’s a rare occurrence, but she’s managed to shock him. It’s not that he was oblivious to Fantomex’s attention, that would be difficult given the man’s penchant for dramatic, spontaneous, and sometimes alarming creative come-on’s, but the man’s a complete flirt! He hadn’t been aware that Fantomex’s apparent determination to seduce him stemmed from anything other than a twisted desire to repay a compliment. This… this sounds dangerously like there are feelings involved. And he’s not sure what that means for him. “Are you saying that Fantomex has some sort of crush on me?” It sounds more absurd the moment the words leave his lips.

“Oh yes,” Cluster says, nodding. She seems quite earnest, eyes fixed on his as she watches for his reaction. Her eyes are the exact same shade of blue as Fantomex’s, Doctor Nemesis notes, the same shape, the same size… which is of course, only to be expected. They used to be one person. Which raises the question, what precisely, she is doing naked in his bed. The answer seems apparent, given the general lack of clothes and disarray of the bed-covers, but Doctor Nemesis has made enough inaccurate assumptions lately that he feels the need to ask.

“And your relationship to each other, it’s of a sexual nature?” Doctor Nemesis asks, falling back to safety of the clinical phrase.

“Sexual, emotional, romantic,” Cluster confirms, nodding, long, loose brown hair slipping over her shoulder.

“Sounds like the narcissistic ideal,” Doctor Nemesis says drily. “Forgive me for not being sure how, exactly, I would fit into this arrangement.”

Cluster opens her mouth to answer, but Fantomex gets in first, speaking for the first time since Doctor Nemesis has entered the room. “Your confusions betrays a lack of imagination, my good doctor.” His voice is deeper than normal, and noticeably hoarse. “I assure you,” he continues raspily, “there are many, many possible configurations and positions the three of us could explore. A ménage à trois is a very manageable number of people really. Things become a little more difficult when you add more people to the mixture, the eternal problem of the elbows -” he breaks off in a sudden fit of coughing, much to Doctor Nemesis’s silent relief.

“Silly,” Cluster admonishes gently, cupping her clone’s cheek with her hand. “Don’t try to speak.”

Fantomex lets out a groan, nuzzling into her palm. He sounds utterly miserable. “The timing of this - this sickness is diabolique! I am in the midst of a seduction!”

“He’s sick?” Doctor Nemesis tries to project surprise into his voice. “What a completely inexplicable turn of events. Oh my. Medical mystery. Well, I should go and explain immediately  to Cable the reason for his absence -”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Cluster says candidly, cutting him off. “It’s obvious his illness is your doing, Doctor. It’s not like we just get sick after all, and there’s not many people capable of creating something our immune system can’t fight off. Don’t worry,” she smiles, “we forgive you. Although poor Fantomex _is_ suffering rather badly because of you.”

“Love is always cruel, my dear Cluster,” Fantomex says, rather dramatically. The pathos of his words is somewhat undermined by the fact he has his face half-buried in a pillow, meaning they’re muffled almost into incoherence. “That’s why it always ends so badly.”

“You’re not angry?” Doctor Nemesis asks tentatively, almost unable to believe it. “Not burning with rage at my betrayal of both your friendship and trust? Not mad at my manipulation of you and your feelings for me?”

Cluster and Fantomex exchange a glance, then shrug synchronously. “No,” Cluster replies. “To be honest, dear, betrayal and manipulation? It’s kind of standard with us,” she smiles, somewhat apologetically. “But if you really feel bad, I’m sure we can think of some ways you can make it up to us…” Her smile changes from something comforting to something undeniably alluring, eyes glittering knowingly, and Doctor Nemesis swallows hard, throat suddenly dry.

“Ugh, Cluster. For god’s sake, woman. Save the seduction for a time when I can sit up without feeling like I’m going to die,” Fantomex says plaintively from the pillow. He breaks into another coughing fit, effectively killing the mood.

Cluster breaks eye-contact to soothingly pet Fantomex’s bare back, and Doctor Nemesis takes a second to loosen his collar. He’s feeling rather flushed. Clearing his throat, he retreats to the comfortingly familiar territory of fact and away from the scary as-of-yet-unexplored land of freaky faux French seduction. “His fever should break in the next couple of hours. I assume the rash has faded…?”

Fantomex makes a miserable noise and mutters something about itching and hives in unutterable places. Cluster nods and promises, “I’ll take care of him.”

“Good,” Doctor Nemesis says, relieved. If she wouldn’t, he supposes he would be obliged to take care of Fantomex, but as Cable has already noted, his bedside manner is abominable. Hope is in many ways, the ideal patient. Coma patients tend not to complain about abrasive doctoring. “I should get back to the mission briefing. Other much more important things to attend to, you know.”

“Of course,” Cluster says, with an unexpectedly sad note in her voice.

Doctor Nemesis halts, hand on the doorknob. That sadness in Cluster’s voice has stirred another emotion he’s unaccustomed to feeling; remorse. “I’ll come back this evening,” he promises stiffly,“to check on my patient and gather vital science data about his recovery. Plus, I’m sure Cable will insist on him being briefed on the details of the next mission.”

Cluster smiles warmly, and Doctor Nemesis feels his cheeks flush. “Good. We’ll be waiting…”

“It’s agreed then!” Doctor Nemesis says, aware his voice is abnormally shrill. Hastily he leaves, before he can become anymore ridiculous.

 

The rest of the day passes in something of a blur. Unenjoyable side-effect of his brain having to process extremely unanticipated situation is that even he doesn’t have the capacity to focus on his actual work with normal vigour. Most annoying. Luckily, when Cable asks for an update in his daily progress towards finding a cure for comatose daughter, he’s able to obfuscate through the use of technical jargon his complete failure to come any closer to formulating a solution. To be fair, even when he’s not utterly off his game he hasn’t been having much success, infuriating as it is to admit.

For once, it’s a relief to leave the lab. He makes his way to Fantomex’s room.

“Ah, the doctor is in the house!” Fantomex says, greeting him genially as he enters. Cluster looks up from a book and smiles. They’re both lounging on the bed, sheets artfully draped over their bare bodies, preserving a modicum of modesty. “Have you come to give me a full body examination?”

“I see you’re feeling better,” Doctor Nemesis says, somewhat irritably. He hadn’t been expecting Fantomex to have made such a seemingly speedy recovery and it leaves him feeling off-balance. Sick people he can deal with competently, if not with much open compassion; attractive, flirtatious and mostly naked people he’s not quite sure how to handle.

“I am,” Fantomex agrees, stretching languidly. The blanket shifts, perilously close to sliding off his body entirely. “Cluster was a great comfort, as were your promises to return to my side.”

“Scientific curiosity is the only thing that has compelled me to return to your little den of depravity, I assure you,” Doctor Nemesis says, stepping over to the bed with intrepid spirit.

“You don’t need to conceal your feelings, Doctor,” Cluster says gently, almost sympathetically. “I know that this - that we - must seem strange to you, it’s understandable if you’re a little scared.”

“Bah,” Doctor Nemesis says scornfully, reaching for Fantomex’s wrist to check pulse and temperature. “Please. Strange is part of my job description. Has it not occurred to either of you that I’m simply uninterested in participating in your fleshy-sweaty copulation?”

“No, why would it?” Fantomex asks, with seemingly genuine confusion. He placidly allows Doctor Nemesis to shine a pocket torch in either eyes, checking for pupil dilation, but continues talking. “I mean, no offence Doctor, but you don’t seem the type to be constantly receiving propositions, let alone from people as exceedingly lovely as Cluster and myself.”

“What he means,” Cluster says, casting Fantomex a frown of admonishment, “is that are you really that opposed to entering a relationship with the two of us? Are you completely uninterested in us?”

Doctor Nemesis hesitates; his automatic urge is to say yes, that he has absolutely no interest in the two of them, alone or as a package deal, but he finds that rejection dying on his lips. Both Cluster and Fantomex are staring up at him, both with unusually serious expressions. It’s… not altogether unpleasant to be the recipient of that much attention, he admits to himself privately. Unable, and unwilling to stop himself, he lets himself imagine how it might feel to have that kind of attention paid to him during sex. “Let’s say - theoretically - I am interested. What then?”

Cluster and Fantomex exchange triumphant glances. “We put theory to the test,” Cluster says, sheet falling away as she sits up and reaches for him, pulling him down onto the bed.

What follows is hard to organise afterwards into logical, sequential order. First Cluster is kissing him, warm, soft body pressing against him, pushing him back into Fantomex’s arms and against the other man’s chest, and then Fantomex’s lips are on him, as he nuzzles into the exposed skin of Nemesis’ neck. Thought fails him, the sensory input scrambling his brain more effectively than the most advanced theoretical physics. Clever, nimble thief-fingers reach for buttons and zippers, stripping him until he’s naked with disconcerting speed, clothes discarded with careless abandon into crumpled heaps on the bedroom floor. Any outrage he might feel at the cavalier treatment of his suit ( _vintage!_ a small part of his brain shrieks in anguish) is overridden by the pleasurable sensation of skin sliding against skin. Every touch is amplified until he feels about to short-circuit.

“Are you still with us, Doctor?” Cluster asks, thoughtful as ever, even as she reaches down between them, slim fingers curling around his erection.

“Ngh,” is all the sound he manages to produce, any last semblance of coherence stripped away as she presses him slowly inside of her.

Fantomex’s low chuckle resonates through him, strong arms wrapped round his chest, grounding him. “Eh, you see, Doctor?” he asks, breath brushing hot against Nemesis’ neck as Fantomex grinds slowly against Nemesis’ back, “This has been a most successful experiment, non? You made the right decision, hm?”

“So - it  - would  - seem,” Doctor Nemesis responds, breathless, grasping desperately at Cluster’s hips as she moves. “Sample size too small to say for sure. Further investigation required.”

Fantomex and Cluster glance at each other, matching smiles spreading on their lips. Nemesis notices Cluster reach for the Fantomex’s free hand to thread their fingers together.

“I think that can be arranged,” Cluster promises, bending down to kiss him.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
